


Past Cure I Am

by sparklyslug



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 4 times, 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, except minus one whatever close enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklyslug/pseuds/sparklyslug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Dwalin takes care of Bilbo, and one time Bilbo takes care of Dwalin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by the fantastic sheetmusicjunkie

Bilbo honestly didn’t notice anything at all until well after they’d waved the Eagles off (well, Bilbo had waved, it had seemed the polite thing to do). It was only as the Company had got on with the business of picking their way down from the peak that Bilbo had realized he was bleeding. High up on his ribs, some unnoticed blade had glanced off the bone and left a ragged line of still bright blood that was sluggishly making its way down his side. 

Well, it was just a little thing. He’d already heard the story of the dwarves’ valiant defeat of the goblins and their king (some parts more than others; he rather thought he could recite Kili’s bit about the ladder from memory now), so complaining about one little cut felt, well. Not quite right. Especially after Thorin’s little ‘I was so wrong about your weakness’ change of heart. 

So no, Bilbo didn’t much feel like broadcasting the news of his cut to the rest of the company. The blade must’ve slipped under his jacket and now-buttonless waistcoat, so it was only his white shirt that had been cut, and was now being steadily ruined further. If he kept his arms close to his sides, there was no way his coat would flap open and show the blood. 

“Alright?” Dwalin said from right next to him. For such a large dwarf, it was remarkable how quiet he could be sometimes, and Bilbo jumped. And then winced, when the motion tugged the cut on his side painfully. 

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo said curtly. He looked around quickly to see if any others were near enough to have heard. “Just a bit wobbly. All that flying.”

“How’d it feel being so tall, Bilbo?” Bofur said, coming up on Bilbo’s other side and throwing an arm over his shoulder. Which brought him right up against Bilbo’s injury, and Bilbo had to grit his teeth a little against the pain. “Hardly a familiar sensation for you, I’m sure.”

“You’re one to talk,” Dwalin growled, reaching around Bilbo to cuff Bofur on the back of the head. 

“Here now,” Bofur laughed, and released Bilbo to adjust his hat. “We can’t all be big, mountainous buggers like Dwalin here. Someone’s gotta be well-placed to deliver an axe to the knee, you know.”

Dwalin snorted, but said nothing. Once Bofur had moved off, he leveled a long, calculating look at Bilbo. But Bilbo affected great interest in whatever Nori and Dori were arguing about just ahead of them, and eventually Dwalin moved off. 

 

~

 

After they made camp, Bilbo snuck quietly off alone to find some source of water. Luckily, a little spring was bubbling up not too far from camp, and Bilbo sank to his knees next to it with a grateful sigh. He splashed water on his face and soaked his tired feet in the spring first, before checking around to see if anyone was nearby. 

When he was sure that he was alone (and sure too that the little round of joke-telling that had started up around the campfire would keep them all entertained for hours yet), Bilbo started carefully removing layers of clothing. His jacket and buttonless vest were carefully laid to the side, but with a sigh Bilbo thought that his shirt was probably ruined. 

He began to pull it off, but had to move carefully to keep his cut from re-opening. He hissed out a pained breath and bent forward, trying to keep from lifting his arms too high as he carefully eased the shirt over his head. 

A strong hand settled over one of his, but before Bilbo could struggle free and defend himself he recognized the voice saying “Easy now, lad. You’ll just make it worse.”

“Dwalin,” Bilbo said, trying for a dignified tone despite having his shirt rucked up over his head. “What are you doing?”

“Brought you a spare shirt out of your pack,” Dwalin said. He’d started to ease Bilbo’s shirt off too, taking more care than Bilbo would have expected from him. Bilbo allowed his arms to be moved around as Dwalin tugged the shirt away, too surprised to say anything, really. 

“I didn’t want to bother anyone,” Bilbo said at last, once he was free of the shirt and Dwalin had handed it back over to him. 

“You can’t let these things go,” Dwalin said. “Infection’s taken down warriors three times your size.”

“I know that,” Bilbo said, bristling. He soaked the discarded shirt in the spring, watching distantly as some of the blood spiraled out into the water. “I might not be a warrior like you all—”

“Warriors trust their comrades,” Dwalin said. 

Bilbo wrung the shirt out and started to tear strips from it, ignoring the pang as he undid the work of a far-off East Farthing seamstress. 

“And,” Dwalin dug around in a pocket. “Warriors know real weakness isn’t the same as asking for help. Here, soap.”

“You keep soap in your pants pocket?” Bilbo asked, momentarily distracted. 

Dwalin frowned at him. Bilbo took the soap. 

They sat in silence by the river bed as Bilbo sponged gingerly at the cut with the remains of his shirt (the cleanest bits of it he could find) and Dwalin’s soap. The cut wasn’t at all bad: it was almost entirely scabbed over and only stung a little as Bilbo carefully cleaned it. 

Dwalin pulled out a pipe and started puffing on it, staring out across the river. Which was a relief. Bilbo wasn’t exactly shy about showing some skin; it wasn’t something he’d think twice about in the warmer months back home. But it was one thing to strip down for a dip with his cousins in a little brook in the Shire in the middle of August. It was another thing entirely to be pinned by the look of an imposing warrior. One who was certainly a bit more... filled-out than Bilbo. 

But better to focus on _not_ picking up something nasty off an orcish blade, and clean himself up properly. Bilbo laid some of the torn-up strips of his shirt (now dry after sunning on a nearby rock) over his side in a pad, and used the rest to tie it into place. Which would hopefully hold for a while. Though having had a look at it, Bilbo really wasn’t so worried about the cut after all. He was incredibly lucky. But no lasting harm done.  

Dwalin handed Bilbo’s spare shirt over, but let Bilbo put it on himself this time. 

“It’s just,” Bilbo said once he was dressed again. Dwalin looked back over at him and puffed on his pipe. “I don’t want any of you to think that I can’t take care of myself.”

Dwalin studied him thoughtfully, then tapped out his pipe and got to his feet. 

“Thing is, lad,” Dwalin said, looking down at Bilbo, “you don’t always have to.”

And he turned, vanishing amongst the trees in what seemed like just a few long steps. 

Bilbo watched him go. And waited until the fluttering in his stomach had subsided before he got up and followed Dwalin back to camp. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Where had that white stag come from? 

Bilbo looked at it, how it seemed to blaze before them in the dark, pale and otherworldly in the shadows of Mirkwood. No light came down through the tall thick trees that leaned close over the path; what light was it that touched the stag’s flanks, his back, his spreading rack of horns? Bilbo was right in front of it, and closest— did the others see how its eyes gleamed?

There was only a second to take all of it in. Then the stag was leaping, leaping right _at him_. Bilbo snapped out of whatever dreamy state he’d fallen into and jerked back, but not quickly enough: The stag’s back legs clipped Bilbo by the shoulder as it passed over him, knocking him hard to the ground. 

The other dwarves shouted in confusion, in fear, even in just a wordless sort of cry of loss as the stag vanished. Kili fired arrow after arrow into the woods even as Thorin yelled “Let it go, let it _go_ ,” while he tried to hold Nori back from dashing off the path after the animal. Some sort of madness seemed to have gripped them all. Maybe the Company had noticed its gleaming eyes after all. 

All but one of them. Warm hands gripped him by both arms, and Bilbo blinked at the face above his until it came into focus. 

“Bilbo?” Dwalin said. “Are you hurt, little one?”

“Wh—” Bilbo shook his head, trying to clear it. 

“Blasted beast,” Dwalin said, gently pulling him up, placing one of his great hands on Bilbo’s forehead and peering into his eyes. “Skull’s too fragile to go knocking against the ground, boy.”

“Yes, thank you,” Bilbo said, his strange disorientation passing enough for him to raise an eyebrow at Dwalin. “All these thick-headed dwarves around, I forget sometimes.”

A rare smile flickered over Dwalin’s face, and he dropped his hand from Bilbo’s face. A little slowly, maybe. 

“My head’s alright,” Bilbo said. “Just nicked my shoulder, but it spun me around more than doing any actual harm.”

“So I see,” Dwalin said. 

“What’s wrong, Bilbo?” Ori bent over him, anxiously looking between Dwalin and the hobbit. “Dwalin, is Bilbo alright?”

“Of course he is,” Dwalin said gruffly, and let go of Bilbo altogether, leaving him to get back up on his own. 

“Oh,” Ori said, relieved, as Dwalin walked off. “What a beast that was though, eh? I do so wish it hadn’t run off like that.”

Bilbo nodded. Gloin and Oin were still standing at the path’s edge, staring dazedly off into the woods. Bilbo watched Dwalin stop Thorin from berating Kili about wasting the last of his arrows, and wondered if his own daze was likely to fade any time soon.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's hardly pleasant to go bobbing down a river trapped in a barrel. But it isn't much easier to be clinging to the outside of that barrel either. Something that only one out of Thorin's company seems to understand.

There are worse things than riding down a river clinging to a barrel. Like, as Thorin had snapped, riding down a river _inside_ a barrel, especially one that had started out reeking of apples and ended up reeking of sick and unhappy dwarf-king. And Thorin had been one of the luckier ones; at least his barrel had been watertight. 

“Glad Thorin’s well enough to talk,” Fili whispered to Bilbo, he and Kili hanging back uncharacteristically from the front of the group and still looking a little green. “No chance we could manage it.”

“Uncle’d manage to make speeches even if he was half drowned,” Kili said, before shutting his mouth tight to suppress a low moan. 

Bilbo resisted the urge to pat Kili on the shoulder (the motion probably wouldn’t have helped his stomach). He settled for letting Kili and Fili lean against him for support, though their combined weight was hell on his sore shoulders. 

His sore _everything_ , to be honest. Almost every muscle in his body was aching, and his head was pounding. It was a bit too early to tell, but he was fairly sure all of that would add up into a terrible head cold in a day or two. 

He’d like nothing more than to sit down and moan a little, but all the citizens of Laketown were looking at Thorin and his company like they were magic, myths come to life. Bilbo’d never seen _anyone_ with reverence and hope like that in their eyes before. Let alone a whole hall full of them.

And the rest of the company could feel it too, he was sure. Their trip down the river had left most of them stiff at best and close to dead at worst, but they were all standing tall and proud under the humans’ regard. 

With, admittedly, some assistance from hobbits-turned-support-pillars in the case of Fili and Kili. 

Bilbo tried not to think about his aching muscles as the Master and Thorin concluded their pleasantries. He tried not to think about them as he tailed after the group to the rooms they had each been given. He tried not to think about them as the door to his own room closed behind him. 

And immediately regretted it. 

He could have asked for hot water and a bath, for a healing poultice, for _tea_ at the very least. It wasn’t likely they’d be refused anything by the people of Laketown at this point, so surely a tub of water would have been reasonable. 

He could have left his room, and tried to find a servant somewhere. But now he was here, he didn’t much feel like moving. Especially when he spotted the large (decadently large, for a hobbit) bed in the center of the room, which he staggered towards and carefully lowered himself onto. 

Heaven. It was heaven. How long had it been since he’d been in a proper bed? The nights of Mirkwood stretched on infinitely in his memory, where he’d slept curled up in out-of-the-way corners with one ear always tuned sharp for the sound of his discovery. Cold stone under him and the whispers and shadows of the world as he saw it while wearing the ring all around him— well. There hadn’t been many restful nights.

Hardly anything to complain about, of course. Not when he was out and free and at least able to do something. Not when he’d gone from cell to cell, and seen how their imprisonment had almost destroyed his dwarves. They slept no more comfortably than he did, and if they were more used to hardship than Bilbo was, well, that hardly gave Bilbo more right to complain. 

Not that he had _enjoyed_ the dwarves’ complaining. Especially as the days had worn on into weeks, and the only free member of their company had been unable to produce a miraculous escape. That’s when their frustration had turned on Bilbo. 

He understood that it _was_ frustration, and not really personal. Didn’t mean he had to like hearing “well, what are you even _doing_ about it, you half-rate dunce of a burglar?” or any similar complaints the others had all launched at him. 

Except Dwalin, of course. Not that he had ever said much. But he at least didn’t seem to think Bilbo was at fault for not getting them out soon enough. 

Bilbo couldn’t be blamed then, for spending more time in front of Dwalin’s cell than any of the others. For lingering a little longer, and coming back again even when there was nothing really to say. 

At times he was tempted to say nothing to announce his arrival, to just sit by the bars of Dwalin’s cell and invisibly share in the big dwarf’s silence. But Dwalin’s head would snap up as soon as Bilbo came near, no matter how quiet the hobbit was. He’d grunt as Bilbo slid down to sit, and let Bilbo strike up a conversation, if there was to be one. If Bilbo didn’t seem inclined to talk, Dwalin would say nothing. 

It was so comforting, to sit in Dwalin’s silence. With the dwarf behind him, so close sometimes that Bilbo could almost feel the warmth of him, or the soft brush of his breath, Bilbo could slip into a doze more restful than any sleep he could get anywhere else in the palace. 

Never for long, of course. The hallways outside the prisoner’s cells were too well patrolled for that. But Bilbo always came away feeling refreshed, and a little less hopeless about their situation. 

He was almost dozing off there in his bed in Laketown, when someone thumped on his door. He considered getting up. Then he considered not answering. But there was another set of thumps, louder this time. 

“Yes?” Bilbo called, not bothering to move. With that noise, it was almost certainly a dwarf. He was rather past the point of standing up for any of them. 

“Asleep already?” a deep, amused voice said. “Suppose I’ll take all this away with me then.”

Bilbo picked his head up, and smiled. “Dwalin. What can I do for you?”

“You’ve done enough already,” Dwalin said, frowning at him. He was carrying a basket, which he sat down on the bed next to Bilbo. 

“Yes, yes, having dunked you all in a river for half a day, that certainly was help enough,” Bilbo leaned forward to look into the basket, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dwalin said, seriously. 

Embarrassed, Bilbo shrugged. “I know, I know. It’s just— Well. What have you brought me?”

“Supper,” Dwalin let go of Bilbo, and started to unpack the basket. “Didn’t get a chance to eat much earlier.”

With a start Bilbo realized that he hadn’t even _thought_ about food all night. No doubt about it, he must have been getting sick. 

“Thank you,” he said, turning to help unpack the cheese, bread, and cold meat that Dwalin had brought. After a moment’s hesitation Dwalin settled down on the edge of the bed next to Bilbo. 

“And what’s this?” Bilbo picked up a small jar that had been tucked under the bread, and opened it. He took a great sniff of the contents, and started coughing. “Phew, some sort of jam? How do they all get so big, eating things like—”

“It’s not jam,” Dwalin said. “‘Ointment. I had Oin make some up for you.”

“Ointment?” 

Dwalin shifted on the bed a little, and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked away. “For muscle aches, bruises, the like,” he looked back at Bilbo. “Saw how you were holding yourself earlier. Does it hurt much, lad?”

Bilbo’s hands tightened around the jar. He let out a deep breath. “It’s not bad—” he began to say, but Dwalin scowled and cut him off. 

“Enough of that. Have that off,” he gestured at Bilbo’s shirt. “I’ll help you.”

Given how Dwalin was glaring at him, it didn’t seem practical to deny him. Bilbo took a wedge of cheese and popped it into his mouth to gain some time,  but ended up sitting back and easing out of his bracers. 

He took his time, unbuttoning his shirt. He did hurt almost everywhere, so it made sense to go slowly. The way Dwalin’s eyes followed the path of his hands and the broadening V of exposed skin had nothing to do with it. 

“Right,” Dwalin said when Bilbo was done, looking even more thunderous than usual. “Let’s take a look at you.”

Bilbo swallowed. “Should I—” He gestured at the bed uncertainly.

“Yes, yes,” Dwalin said impatiently. “Any fool can see it’s your back that plagues you.”

“Right,” Bilbo said. And lowered himself carefully onto his stomach (taking care not to lie in any of the food). _This is nothing he hasn’t seen already,_ he told himself sternly. He still had to turn his face away when he felt Dwalin settle closer, the rough hide of his leather belt brushing against Bilbo’s side. He was fairly sure he was blushing. And extremely sure that he didn’t want Dwalin to see it. 

“Hard, was it?” Dwalin said. There was a soft noise as he opened the jar of Oin’s ointment, and the powerful herbal smell seemed to fill the room. 

“What was?” Bilbo asked, a little muffled. 

“Clinging to the barrels. Being inside, that was one thing. It was snug enough. Not great fun, mind. But at least I didn’t have to worry about holding tight to a great slippery thing bobbing around in the water.”

Bilbo didn’t have much time to be surprised at this lengthy speech, because as soon as it was done Dwalin’s hands, warm and slick with the ointment, were pressing into the small of his back. 

“Ah. Well,” Bilbo kept from squirming, only just. “The worst was trying to stay above the water.”

“Managed it, though,” Dwalin said, a rough note of approval in his voice. The ointment didn’t smell so bad once you got used to it, really. Dwalin’s big hands were working it into the sore muscles of Bilbo’s back, filling them with a spreading warmth. “And for more than half a day. You’re stronger than you look, for such a little lamb.”

“Lamb?” Bilbo tried to sound indignant, but as Dwalin’s fingers had just hit on a knot in the center of his back, it came out as more of a low moan. 

“Aye,” Dwalin said gruffly. “A lamb. Can—” he hesitated, shifting next to Bilbo, and his hands went still over Bilbo’s shoulders. “Sitting here, makes it a bit harder to do this properly.”

“What?” Bilbo said. His thoughts were drifting a little now, his limbs pleasantly heavy. “Fine, fine. S’all fine.”

“Right,” Dwalin said, but in an undertone, like he was talking to himself. Those warm hands vanished from Bilbo’s back, and Bilbo turned his head to see Dwalin easing off his great boots. 

This was almost as shocking as seeing the dwarf _naked_ would be _—_ he hadn’t seen any of his dwarves without their boots on— so Bilbo was so busy staring at Dwalin’s feet (wrapped in what looked like thick wool, it wasn’t even like his feet were bare) that he didn’t register immediately how Dwalin was moving fully onto the bed and settling himself over Bilbo’s hips. 

There wasn’t much contact, as Dwalin was sitting up on his knees, well above Bilbo. But it was— well, it was the _idea_ of the thing, of having the dwarf _straddling_ him, looming over Bilbo’s bare back and... oh, and going back to putting his hands on it. Hands that Bilbo certainly wouldn’t have expected to be so clever, judging by their size.  

Bilbo sighed, before he could stop himself. “You’re right,” he said, as Dwalin’s thumbs dug just under his shoulder blades, where the muscles had locked tight in a panicked grip around the barrel for hours. “This is better.”

Dwalin’s hands went still for a moment. Then pushed in again, before sliding down Bilbo’s back to work at the tight muscles just at the base of his spine. 

Well. Bilbo didn’t really mean to doze off. But he was tired, so tired. And Dwalin was warm around and over him, his hands strong and pressing just hard enough, and the silence was comfortable, punctuated only a little by Bilbo’s soft sighs. 

So Bilbo drifted. And drifted right off, with Dwalin’s hands still on him, with Dwalin still kneeling above him. 

When he woke up again, the room was dark. There was a blanket tucked over him. His back and shoulders felt miraculously better. And Dwalin was gone.


End file.
